初中關于花的英語美文閱讀

　　絢麗多彩的花朵在微風的吹拂下翩翩起舞，猶如一位亭亭玉立的少女。小編精心收集了初中關于花的英語美文，供大家欣賞學習!

　　初中關于花的英語美文篇1

　　所有的花兒都美麗

　　I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.

　　At the time, I did not consider this a luxury1 , although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.

　　I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.

　　Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal2 of my mother's teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog's license tags as she bounded3 down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of4 the gerrymandered5 schedules that now pervade6 my life.

　　One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly7 rehearsed8 my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.

　　Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator's9 part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.

　　I didn't tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.

　　It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine10 on the trellis11 was turning green. Under the huge elm12 trees, we could see yellow dandelions13 popping14 through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs15 of gold.

　　I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps16, “I think I'm going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, yanking17 a blossom up by its roots. “From now on, we'll have only roses in this garden.”

　　“But I like dandelions,” I protested. “All flowers are beautiful—even dandelions.”

　　My mother looked at me seriously. “Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn't it?” She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over18 . “And that is true of people too,” she added. “Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.”

　　Relieved19 that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly20 .

　　“But you will be a beautiful narrator,” she said, reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her, “The narrator's part is every bit as important as the part of the princess.”

　　Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear.

　　Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. “Your mother asked me to give this to you,” she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped21 lazily from its stem22. But just looking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud.

　　After the play, I took home the flower I had stuffed23 in the apron of my costume. My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed.

　　I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not savored24 in pre-measured increments25 , but in the sum of daily rituals26 and small pleasures we casually share with loved ones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things.

　　A few months ago, my mother came to visit. I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled27 with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished28 the pace of the work world.

　　“Mom, you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child,” I said.

　　“Bored? Housework is boring. But you were never boring.”

　　I didn't believe her so I pressed. “Surely children are not as stimulating as a career.”

　　“A career is stimulating,” she said. “I'm glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower.”

　　Just then, looking at her, I could picture us sitting at her kitchen table once again, and I understood why I kept that flaky29 brown dandelion in our old family dictionary pressed between two crumpled30 bits of paper toweling.

　　我在一個小鎮(zhèn)上長大，在那兒，從我家步行到我就讀的小學只要10分鐘。在那個時代——其實就是不久以前，孩子們可以回家吃午飯，媽媽總在等著。

　　但那時，我并沒意識到這有多奢侈;而今，這肯定是一種奢望?？晌耶敃r還以為媽媽就該做三明治，就該鑒賞手指畫，就該檢查家庭作業(yè)。不僅如此，我還從沒覺得有什么不對：這個志向遠大、聰明伶俐的女人，在我出生前曾有一份自己的事業(yè)，有朝一日又將重新投身于自己的事業(yè)，卻在我整個小學階段，幾乎每天的午餐時間都和我一起度過。

　　那時候，我只知道中午放學的鈴一響，我就會氣喘吁吁朝家里跑去。媽媽總會站在樓梯的上端，笑容滿面地注視著我，分明在告訴我：在她心里，我是惟一重要的。對此，我永遠心存感激。

　　一些聲音總能勾起我對往事的回憶，比如說：媽媽的茶壺燒開水時發(fā)出的又長又尖的高聲鳴叫，地下室里洗衣機發(fā)出的隆隆轟鳴聲以及我的小狗歡跳著下樓迎接我時脖子上的小牌發(fā)出的叮當聲。那時可不像現(xiàn)在，如今我的生活完全被各種日程安排所操縱。

　　三年級時的一個午餐時間我將永志難忘。那時候，我在學校排演的一出話劇中被選中飾演公主。在那幾個星期里，媽媽費心地陪著我一遍又一遍地排練臺詞。但是，無論我在家里把臺詞背得多嫻熟，一上舞臺，那些詞兒就消失得無影無蹤了。

　　最后，老師把我叫到一旁，向我解釋說，她為這出戲寫了一個旁白的角色，要我換成旁白。盡管她說得很委婉，但仍刺痛了我，尤其是當我看到別的女孩取代自己演公主的時候，我心里難受極了。

　　那天中午回家吃飯時，我沒把這件事告訴媽媽，但她感覺到了我的不安。于是，她沒有提議我們繼續(xù)練臺詞，而是問我愿不愿意和她一起到院子里走一走。

　　那是一個美好的春日，棚架上的玫瑰枝條正在泛綠。高大的榆樹下，一束束黃色的蒲公英從草叢中探出頭來，好像是一位畫家在我們的山水畫上涂抹了點點金黃似的。

　　我看見媽媽在一叢花旁漫不經心地彎下腰。“我想我應該把這些野草全拔掉，” 她一邊說一邊將一蔸開得正茂盛的花兒連根拔起。“從今以后，我們的花園里只有玫瑰。”

　　“可是，我喜歡蒲公英啊，”我抗議道，“所有的花兒都美麗——即使是蒲公英。”媽媽神情嚴肅地看著我，若有所思地說：“不錯。每一種花都以自己的方式給我們帶來美的享受，難道不是嗎?”我點了點頭，很高興自己說服了她。“其實，人也是如此，”她補充道，“并不是每個人都可以成為公主，這沒什么可丟人的。”

　　原來，她早就猜到了我的煩惱。我哭了起來，哽咽著把所發(fā)生的事告訴了她。她一邊聆聽一邊微笑著安慰我。

　　“但是，你會成為一個出色的旁白的。旁白的角色其實和公主一樣重要。”她還提醒我說以前我是多么喜歡大聲給她朗讀故事。

　　隨后的幾個星期，在媽媽的不斷鼓勵下，我漸漸對這一角色感到自豪。而在那些午餐時間里，我們不是排練我的臺詞，就是討論演出時我該穿什么服裝。

　　演出那天晚上，我在后臺感到很緊張。就在開演前的幾分鐘，老師向我走了過來。“你媽媽讓我把這個交給你，”她一邊說一邊把一朵蒲公英遞給我。它的邊緣處已經開始卷曲，花葉從莖桿上耷拉下來。就是這短暫的一瞥，我就知道我的媽媽此刻坐在臺下，想起我們午餐時間的談話，一種自豪感不禁油然而生。

　　演出結束后，我把那朵蒲公英塞進了我演出服的口袋里帶回了家。媽媽把它壓在兩張紙巾之間再夾進字典里，笑著說，這世上也許只有我們兩人愿意把這么一株不起眼的野草小心翼翼地夾起來。

　　如今，沐浴在正午和煦的陽光里，我?；貞浧鹞覀円黄鸲冗^的那些午餐時間。它們就像是我童年歲月里的小逗點兒。這些停頓告訴我，生命不是在預先量好的增額中來體味的，而是要在每天的生活瑣事以及不經意中和所愛的人共享的許多小樂趣中去細細體味的。吃著花生醬三明治和巧克力曲奇條，我認識到：愛，首先并且最重要地，意味著關注那些微不足道的小事。

　　幾個月前，媽媽來看我。我請了一天假陪她吃午飯。午時的餐館熙熙攘攘，一些商人在吃飯，時不時地瞟一眼腕上的手表。在這些忙碌的人群中，我和現(xiàn)已退休的媽媽坐在那里。從她臉上，我看得出她非常羨慕上班族的工作節(jié)奏。

　　“媽媽，我小時候您呆在家里照顧我時，一定感到非常厭煩吧?”我問道。

　　“厭煩?家務活確實讓人感到厭煩，但你永遠也不會讓我感到厭煩。”

　　我有些不相信，于是又說：“照顧孩子肯定不像工作那么具有挑戰(zhàn)性。”

　　“工作確實非常具有挑戰(zhàn)性，"她說,”我很高興我有過一份工作。不過，工作就像是一個敞開口的氣球，你只有一直給它充氣，它才會保持膨脹。但孩子就像是一粒種子，你給它澆水，盡自己最大努力來呵護它。然后，它會自己成長起來，變成一朵美麗的花兒。"

　　就在那一刻，注視著媽媽，我仿佛又回到了她的廚房，和她一起坐在餐桌旁。也就在那一刻，我終于明白了我為什么要把那朵剝落的褐色蒲公英夾在那兩張皺巴巴的紙巾里，至今仍珍藏在我們家的那本舊字典中。